


Bah Humbug and Other Christmas Lessons

by windandthestars



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas, F/M, Inspired by A Christmas Carol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 20:09:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windandthestars/pseuds/windandthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m wounded,” Leona sours at his bitterness.  “I come all this way to help an old friend and he wants to turn me out on my head.  All right, then, if you insist on being stubborn, I’ll get on with it.  You will be visited by three ghosts."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bah Humbug and Other Christmas Lessons

He’s sick of all the Christmas bullshit. They’re not running any holiday segments on his show (being managing editor has its perks), but the ads that flicker past the corner of his eye at the start of every commercial break are drenched in holiday cheer, and as the days of December tick by they grows more and more intolerable.

He’s about to throw one of the monitors across the room when Herb, not Don, reminds him with annoying detachment that they’re back in thirty. He’s survived the eight o’clock broadcast and the A-block at the top of the ten, so he figures he can refrain from breaking anything he might have to pay to replace, at least for tonight. 

The news slips past him, there’s nothing remarkable, no new economic meltdown or catastrophic weather, the commercials start up again and he pushes back from the desk, slipping out the door toward his office. He’s not looking to do anything specific, but he would like a couple of minutes alone, away from the holiday cheer that so soured his mood.

When he rounds the corner into the bullpen, however, he’s out of luck. Most of the staff had left early, a byproduct of the holiday, but Reese is there, seated at a desk watching him cross the room. 

“They told me not to bother you while you were in the studio.”

“We’re still on the air.”

“You’re not in the studio.” Reese counters plainly and Will sighs.

“What can I do you for?”

“Will McAvoy, always so sarcastic.” Reese comments, “I wonder if your audience knows.”

“That I hate the holidays? I would wager they do.”

“That’s a shame.” Reese is still watching him, calculating. “There’s a party tonight. Upstairs. I was hoping you would make an appearance.”

“It’s not in my contract.”

“You’re the face of this company.”

“I thought that was you.” Will shoots back, moving past Reese, aiming for his office.

“I’m your boss.” There’s a dry note of amusement in the reply. “I won’t order you to be there. I don’t want you fucking around on the air, even if no one watches the news right before Christmas, but I want you there. I may be keeping this company afloat, but it won’t stay that way if you continue to insist on being a cantankerous old man.”

“That’s amusing.” Will points a finger in his direction, doubling back toward the studio. “Clever, but I have plans, a date. There’s a bottle of Jamisons with my name on it, but I’ll keep that in mind. You head on upstairs and I’m going to go make the news. I’ll see you on Monday. Let me know how it goes.”

He makes it back on air without any further comment from Reese. He’s glad because he’s not sure he can take the nagging, not when Herb comes back through his ear, Tess and Joey chattering in the background, asking if he wanted to put in a donation for the office charity drive.

“No.” Is his reply, flat and disinterested as he’s forced to repeat it. He’s not making an argument, there’s no need to build a case. Charitable or not he makes his donations when it suits him. He’s all about the glitz and glam, his public, a donation at the office wouldn’t even garner him a thank you card.

“Maybe next year.” Tess finally falters as Herb echoes the final, “in ten, nine…”

*

He hadn’t planned on walking, but the weather is nice, the snow they’d had earlier in the day settled along the sidewalks in a glittering blanket, the wind slowed to the faintest of tickles as he makes his way up the block. There aren’t many lookie lous around to make a fuss tonight, so he’s willing to grit his teeth and bear the holiday music snaking out of the shops he passes and the smattering of buskers rasping carols as he approaches The Square.

He wanders through the brightly lit streets, the familiar billboards and displays a comfort in their blacks and their blues, the hues of purple and orange that spill forth to dance through the air. Tonight it’s almost poetic, this ode to shallow consumerism. Even here, there was false holiday cheer, but at least there was a sense of honesty and realism about it. This was Christmas plain and simple: flashy material goods and the desire for more.

The cab ride home is quiet, nondescript, the bottle of whiskey he pours from similarly nondescript, ordinary. He lights a cigarette, watching the smoke slowly drift toward the ceiling, filling the void around him. Normally he would smoke out on the balcony, a glass in one hand a cigarette in the other, but tonight he’s stretched out on the couch, a fake fire flickering on the tv.

*

He must have fallen asleep because when he wakes up the air is filled with the sour musky smell of burning pot and an odd rattling sound. He can’t remember lighting up. An instinctive check of the ashtray on the table beside him tells him it isn’t his weed that he’s smelling. He can’t remember inviting anyone in so he figures he’ll have to have a talk with his neighbors whenever he can be bothered, and do something about the window that someone’s inevitable left open, the rattling was going to drive him mad.

He slides his eyes shut, preparing to slip back to sleep when he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Boo.” The accompanying laugh is dry, vaguely raspy, but light in its amusement. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me, McAvoy.” An amused Leona grins from her perch on his coffee table. “My son would be disappointed.”

“Your son is disappointing, there’s a difference.” Will grumbles, straightening up reluctantly. “Now if you wouldn’t mind shutting up, I would like to go back to sleep.”

“I can’t do that Billy Boy,” she laughs again, too amused with herself to notice the glare he throws her way. “These shoes are gorgeous but they’re killing my feet. They’re new, do you like them?”

She wiggles one in his direction and he waves a hand at her nodding reluctantly. “They’re fabulous. I’ll buy you another pair as soon as you shut up.”

“Maybe a pair of tennis shoes would be better,” Leona continues, musing, “an eternity spent wandering the earth puts a bit of a crimp in your fashion sense. Pain may be beauty but it’s also downright stupid after the first couple of years. I’m surprised I made it up here. You couldn’t picked an apartment on the ground floor could you?”

“There’s an elevator.” Will mumbles, shifting to turn away from her, intent on going back to sleep. “You can use it on the way down.”

“I can’t have people see me looking like this. I’m hideous.” Leona grouses, obviously willing to stick around until she gets at whatever it was that had brought her here.

Will forces himself to look over at her. He hadn’t noticed before but the cream of her suit is blotted out by the large silver chain wrapped around her, limb to limb and across her torso. It’s not the expensive silver of Tiffany’s and Harry Winston, but the sharper metallic glint of construction sites and condemned buildings.

“I sold out. Political pressure. You remember. It was right before you went back to selling out yourself, for ad revenue.” He doesn’t like the tone Leona’s taking with him, the bitter edge under the chemical high.

“If it’s the numbers you’re worried about, leave me alone. Go have a word with your son.”

“My son.” Leona scoffs a bit, fingernails tapping on the glass tabletop. “He has a wife, a family. My grandchildren,” she can’t help but sigh wistfully, “I never did get to meet the little shits.”

“Charming,” Will interjects rubbing his head, wondering what it was his subconscious was trying to get at. He’s had hallucinations in the past, back before self medicating had given him a constant headache and an ulcer. They’d never been like this though, vivid, obnoxious. Mostly he had envisioned happier times, other places. Leona was none of these things. “What do you want?”

“I’m wounded,” Leona sours at his bitterness. “I come all this way to help an old friend and he wants to turn me out on my head. All right, then, if you insist on being stubborn, I’ll get on with it. You will be visited by three ghosts, the first will appear when the woman upstairs, Betty, Bessie,”

“Betsy.”

“Betsy trips hiding presents under the tree. She takes the entire thing with her,” Leona chuckles dryly, “you won’t hear her husband get up to help her, but they’ll be up half the night. The second will appear when the clock strikes two, make sure you turn off your alarm. You wouldn’t want to wake the baby, Betsy wouldn’t be pleased. The third,” Leona fumbles for her pocket for a moment before drawing out a Blackberry and scrolling thorough a list. The third will show up whenever she damn well pleases. That’s a direct quote. Such a peach that one.”

“I understand.” Will grumbles, leaning over to fall bodily onto the couch. “Three ghosts, three hours, I’m fucking Scrooge. Take the rest of the bacon with you. No more Egg McMuffins for me. Good night.”

He can feel Leona’s eyes on him, relentless as he lays unmoving on the couch. It’s not the most comfortable position, but he’s already half asleep, drifting off before Leona disappears, muttering under her breath about ungrateful children as she moves past him toward the kitchen.

*

He wakes to a loud crash overhead, the sound of the ceiling falling in on him, or as he had predicted a tree toppling over. He wonders how he could have known that would happen. He’s never seen their apartment let alone the tree. He’s never even met Betsy, although he thinks he may have passed her in the hall. They’ve both been living her long enough, it’s statistically likely and yet he has no explanation for his predictive ability.

Maybe it’s not the bacon. He considers this, stretching, pulling against his vaguely aching shoulder until it stretches, his discomfort easing. He had learned long ago not to spend the night on the couch, but it seems he had intended to all the same. Maybe he was drunk. He certainly doesn’t feel drunk enough to be hallucinating, but then again he could still be unconscious, sleeping it off, his subconscious cooking up explanations for his previous episode. That had to be it.

Will shuffles across the room. He splashes water on his face in the bathroom and falls gratefully into bed. There hasn’t been any more noise from upstairs so he figures he can still get a good night’s sleep before he has to get up in the morning and fetch his own paper. Like Elliot, Scott had asked for time off for the holiday, and like with Elliot, Will had begrudgingly given him the rest of the week off after securing a promise that there would be no slacking on Monday.

“Still staying up half the night, I see.” Charlie’s voice doesn’t startle him like Leona’s had, but then again, Charlie’s speaking at a volume befitting the hour.

“You.” Will groans and then smiles despite himself. He should have figured Leona, or at least his subconscious’ version of the nuisance, would send Charlie, an old friend to both of them.

“It’s been awhile.” Charlie speaks from beside the door, entirely entwined in shadow, “I’ve hardly heard from you since I retired.”

Kicked the bucket, Will silently amends with a wince. With Reese in charge of AWM and the news division, Will missed Charlie’s steadying hand more with each passing week. Retirement had been the end of the line for Charlie. Will only hoped he could be so lucky.

“Do you remember that first morning in my office, I was telling you a story-“

“Da Nang.” Will’s surprised by how easily the memory rises, how vividly it seems to appear before him unbidden, the walls of his room fading away to be replaced by Charlie’s light dappled office.

“New York, 2011.” Charlie corrects. Will feels time slide by this time, the temporal shift occurring around him, within him. Within seconds they’re back in Charlie’s office the morning after his first Primetime broadcast. He feels exhausted. The younger version of himself seated across from Charlie with a glass of bourbon looks like he’s been involved in a multiple car pile up. He looks haunted.

“Not that morning,” 

Time whispers by him again, passing unbidden. There’s snow outside the window now, fluffy ridges adhering to window ledges and the corners of glass panes. This version of Will’s former self looks better rested, but just as irritated as Will currently feels.

“Her flight’s grounded.”

“I told you I have plans. A date.”

“With a woman?” Charlie pries. Will watches himself frown. “She hates me.”

“She hardly knows you.”

“That’s kind of my point.”

“I can’t believe they didn’t have the decency to tell me my flight was cancelled before I made it through security. It’s downright barbaric to make someone stand in line like that for over an hour before they tell them to pack it in and head back out into the cold. I had plans. Tickets to the service at Westminster on-“

“MacKenzie.” The younger Will greets her calmly as she shoulders her way through the door still ranting, to drop her luggage on the floor beside Charlie’s desk.

“MacKenzie,” Will echoes, stepping closer despite the rapid skipping of his heart. “Neither of us had any idea what was about to happen. I infuriated you. You made me laugh. I fell in love with you that night covered in tinsel, drunk on buttered rum and mulled wine.”

“It took months for either of you to mention that you might be interested in working together. So much wasted time.” Charlie’s ghost laments.

He reaches for her then, wondering how solid this reality was, how vivid. He wants to touch her, to feel her sigh as his fingertips brushed her cheeks, but she fades away, and with her the office.

They’re standing on the sidewalk. Will can’t see much through the thick curtain of snow that’s blowing around his head, but he knows they’re in a residential neighborhood based on the cars beside the curb buried under several inches of the white stuff.

He turns at the sound of doors slamming and watches groups of people begin to arrive, two and three at a time, some of whom are vaguely familiar. He recognizes Tess and Neal, later Maggie shows up slogging unsteadily across the grass to the front door, the sidewalk unseen several feet to her right.

He follows her in, trying to place the night, the memory in his mind. There isn’t much to go on; Charlie’s silent as he follows along. They’re at Don’s apartment, the one he had almost lost, leveraging it to pay his legal fees after the Genoa fallout. 

The place looks much the same then as it did now, but tonight the walls seem to glow in the candle light, the windows sparkling against the grey curtain of falling snow. It’s the Christmas before MacKenzie had returned to New York, or nearly so, he gleans from the news magazines stacked beside the couch.

The crowd here is making a ruckus, it’s loud with laughter and good cheer. There’s no deference for polite company, no need to abandon the punch bowl after the first glass had disappeared.

He remembered other nights, similar celebrations, the ridiculous toasts he had been forced to make at MacKenzie’s behest, amused smiles at his fumbled acknowledgements. He was here tonight, somewhere, but quietly grumpily brooding in the corner. He had showed up to avoid the public admonishment on Monday, he had left somewhat lighter, more content, temporarily buoyed by the happiness around him.

He watches Maggie shed her coat and wave uncertainly at Tess who slips through the cluster of people by the bedroom door to join her. There’s an exchange, an anxious laugh from Maggie and a sweeping gesture from Tess. They slip back through the crowd and Will follows, snagging a couple of jam filled Christmas cookies from an abandoned plate.

He watches the two stop in the doorway, Maggie stationed in the center, blocking traffic. From behind her, Tess’ voice raises above the din momentarily, calling for Don who appears, eyes widening in understanding when they settle on Maggie in the doorway.

“Maggie, right?” Don extends a hand politely, eyes flickering to the mistletoe affixed overhead. “You started in the newsroom over the summer.”

“Will’s assistant.” Maggie confirms, wiping her hands against her skirt before extending it to Don. “You’re Don Keefer, hot shot EP.” She colors a bit, obviously embarrassed by how easily the nickname tumbles out. “I love your work. I think it’s very-“

“You’re standing under the mistletoe,” Don mercifully cuts her off, “you wouldn’t mind my stealing a kiss.”

“Oh,” Maggie looks up surprised and then shakes her head, “oh, no, of course not.”

The kiss is chaste, a polite brush of his lips against hers, but there’s a spark there. Perhaps it exists only in Will’s mind, not an element of the memory but a premonition based on future knowledge, either way it sticks with him, the polite introduction and the anxious pleasure.

The night unfolds, tinted warm and honey sweet in his memory as he watches the flirtations and the hidden smiles, the heated debates and the quiet consolations. The hours unfold until the candles are extinguished and Don, alone, turns out the light, pulling down the mistletoe before turning into bed with a smile.

For a moment everything is dark, the passage of time a bitter wind in his ears. His eyes sting as his vision is flooded with light. They’re back at the AWM building, in his office this time. MacKenzie paces before him, fists held tight beside her, eyes brimming.

“I can’t stay.” Her voice breaks his heart, the wavering edges and the silent plea. She can hardly look at him. It’s been a long time since she could. It had taken him months afterwards to realize that, but the realization hits him again now and he finds she’s not the only one with fists balled at their side.

He’s been selling out for weeks, they’ve both been selling out, salvaging ratings with lousy half assed news. Ever since he found the words to ask her to stay she’s been selling out for him and she can’t do it anymore, he can see that now. The Will at his desk can only see his life slipping away.

“I have the ring,” he fires back, quickly, too quickly. He’s desperate, but the gesture comes too late, six weeks too late, election night has passed, his window of redemption closed. He could have asked her to stay, to be his, then, but he can’t now. “I asked you here so that I could-“

She’s not listening so he stops. Will remembers the feeling of numbness that had washed over him, his perfect plan, his proposal brushed aside with the blow of her words. He turns away now, eyes pleading with Charlie to pull him from this memory, to save him from it, but time passes too slowly.

“I already accepted a job with CNN. I start on Monday. Don’s already agreed to pull double duty. Take care of yourself, Will.”

He lands back in the present with a thud hard enough to rattle his teeth but he hardly notices. The minutes ticking by first one and then another, blurred by the tears that are falling two years too late: 1:47… 1:48… 1:49.

*

He has his eyes screwed shut when he sees the blurry red lights flicker over to two, the hazy numbers solidifying momentarily before he shuts them out. There’s the sound of stumbling, tripping to be more exact, a string of mumbled curses and a sudden depression of the bed beside him. 

“Sorry,” It’s Sloan’s voice, somewhat breathless, definitely irritated floating toward him through the black of his room. “I was trying to find the light switch. It shouldn’t be so dark in here. OSHA requires-”

“New moon.” He explains, cutting her off before his mind catches up with what’s going on, a hand wiped hastily over his face. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Sleeping with you.”

She’s teasing him. Although her reply had been dry, still annoyed, he knows this. He knows this because she had been the last one to tease him, to lighten the increasingly demoralized spirit of the newsroom. For a moment his heart rises, buoyed by the recognition of emotion in another person, before it falls again, disheartened by the realization that she too is gone.

He flicks on the bedside lamp as he feels her push herself off the bed. There’s some shuffling but she seems to be stationary as he blinks acclimating himself to the light. He turns toward her and blinks again. He doesn’t remember her being this tall. She’s not impossibly tall, but he’s fairly certain she’s taller than she should be.

“Come on. Let’s go.” She insists as he sits studying her. “I have work to do.”

“All right.” He grumbles, holding up a hand to ward her off. “But let me find a sweatshirt this time. It’s too cold outside for all of this crap.”

He pulls an old Northwestern sweatshirt from the back of his closet and turning, almost stumbles back onto the bed himself. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

Sloan looks down to where he’s staring, then up at him, the corners of her mouth twitching at his mortification. “I’m the ghost of Christmas present. I’m supposed to be a giant. Someone forgot to inform my parents.”

Will shakes his head and pulls his eyes up from the huge platform heels peeking out from under the hem of her gown. She’s swathed in green velvet, rich and warm, the fabric shimmering slightly in the inadequate light. She may have been joking before, but he can’t say his reply, if there had been one, would have been entirely in jest. She’s stunning, all curves and cleavage with tantalizing expanses of skin.

He had never found himself attracted to her in this way, and yet now he finds himself yearning to reach out in touch her, to reassure himself of the warmth of her skin and her presence here tonight. He hadn’t missed her when she had left. 

He hasn’t missed anyone who had left since the day MacKenzie had slipped away from him, but he misses her now. He misses her jauntily warn Santa hats and the incessant sound of bells from earrings, and necklaces, blinking lights from reindeer antlers and teardrop shaped rings.

“Come on,” she repeats, more an impatient sigh than a command.

He stays where he is lost in a jumble of memories from the past: those shown to him tonight and others more recent.

“Move it.” She tugs on his arm, dragging him out over the cold wooden floor and the even colder slush covered sidewalks. The space around them blurs, buildings shift closer, pull apart, fall away. They’re in a suburb now, which one he’s not sure, but he knows where he is, or at least where he might be.

It’s Elliot and his wife, who he remembers meeting years ago. Most of the kids are only vaguely recognizable, shadow images of the photos Elliot had scattered around his office. They’ve all grown he realizes with a start. He can’t remember witnessing the time passing and yet it had. When had they stopped visiting the studio? When had he stopped noticing?

Jim and Hailey are there; Hailey with a small bundle wrapped in her arms. And Maggie, face drawn, moving from the corner to join them as the others gather around the tree, shining faces sparkling from the lights scattered through the branches.

Maggie is worried, he realizes, worn down from the constant vigilance and long hours at the office. There’s a pang of guilt that comes with acknowledging his role in her hardship but he pushes it away, too curious, drawn in by the need to understand.

There’s laughter, a bit of good natured jostling between his staffers and a real smile from Maggie as she turns toward the door. There’s a man there, tall and lean, with a resemblance to Elliot so strong, they could only be brothers.

Wordlessly, Will moves away from Sloan, drawing closer to the scene laid out before him. He can hear some of what they’re saying now. Maggie’s stealing a kiss. Hailey croons to her fussing daughter. Elliot’s wife offers eggnog and Christmas cookies. It’s a small affair, homey and intimate.

Elliot makes a joke, tosses a small round ornament at his brother and they both laugh, grinning until a deep racking cough interrupts the celebration. The effect is almost immediate, the sudden stillness in the air as Maggie fumbles through the purse she had been clutching at her side. They turn away, Elliot, his brother and Maggie, but Will doesn’t need to be able to see what’s happening to know that something’s wrong.

“What’s happening? Is he sick?” The note of desperation in his voice makes him wince, but he turns to Sloan, imploringly, all the same.

“He’s been sick for a long time.” It’s matter of fact, calm, stock quotes rattled off on air, the countdown to the start of the show. Will reaches out into the frozen air to steady himself. Sloan fades away.

He’s slumped against a table in the corner of the AWM executive dining hall. Sloan is across the room wiggling a finger at him with a sassy grin on her face. He reels as she smirks, his entire weight pressed down into the table as he tries to take in what had just happened. Maggie’s boyfriend, fiancé he realizes with a jolt, Elliot’s brother, is dying. He’s dying because corporate greed, numbers, ratings and sales are more important than a single life, than his life.

Will wants to puke.

He grabs a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, a previously impossible task in this impervious reality, and downs it in one long gulp. The room steadies and the nausea fades as he sets his feet more firmly against the floor and takes a look around.

The space has been decorated for the holiday, more sparsely than the abundant decorations and adornments at the Hirsch residence, but they’re still present, still unexpectedly cheery.

The low thrum of jazz in the background is bright, almost sassy, a mirror of the flirty smile Sloan offers him as she slips through the crowd to stand by his side. Her ridiculous heels are gone, the dress still whispering around her ankles as she leans to whisper conspiratorially. “You never did admit to liking this kind of thing, but you always showed up.”

Past tense. He reaches for another glass of champagne and Sloan takes it from him, downing it instead. 

“Reese is about to make a speech.” She draws his attention to the quiet clinking of silverware on glass as the room falls silent.

“I want to say a few words tonight. It’s a bit of a Lansing tradition,” he smiles, his arm tightening around the woman beside him, the nameless Rockett from so many years before. “Make the toast before you’re drunk off your ass, or if you were my mother stoned out of your mind.” There’s a smattering of polite laughter and Reese continues. “I wanted to thank you all for being here tonight, for celebrating with us. I know many of you have families and other responsibilities so I won’t keep you. For those of you who are planning on staying the alcohol is free and the band isn’t leaving until well after midnight, but before I let you all return to the merriment, a toast: to the legacy of AWM, to another successful year, and to Will McAvoy, the most watched anchor in cable news.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd, too impolite to be spoken allowed in a public space, but it’s there, the dissent and the ill will that floods to the surface at the mention of his success. He’s always ignored it, let it glide through his memory, disappearing like so many other moments from the past. They were jealous, uncomprehending of how hard he had worked, how much he had sacrificed to get where he was. He loved his job, his popularity; he lived for it. He held tight to that but tonight, here among the hushed whispers it isn’t quite enough.

All around him glasses are raised dutifully as the details of the room begin to fizzle out. Reese speaks again but the words are blotted out by radio static. It’s a sudden shift, one moment he’s standing watching the party slip away and the next he’s lying face down on his bed listening to a very loud and equally fuzzy radio broadcast. When he switches it off there’s the muffled sound of a child crying overhead, but here in his apartment he’s alone. 

*

He rolls over intent on putting the night and its errant craziness, the wacked out dreams, behind him. He sighs and then groans forcing himself back up on his elbows. There’s a dog in his room, he can hear it now, licking itself.

“Damn it, Howard.” He hears as he fumbles for the light again. “He was just about to fall asleep. He’s cute when he’s sleeping.”

“It’s not three o’clock yet.”

Taylor’s eyes meet his flatly. “Howard wanted to go for a walk. Didn’t you, Howard?” She finishes, crooning, scratching the dog behind the ears.

Howard is a scrappy dog, tiny, but not the yuppie terrier or the pampered shih tzu he had expected. He’s obviously a mutt, well spoiled if his lack of doggie manners where anything to go by.

Taylor, oblivious to where Howard’s tongue had just been, laughs as he sits up to lick her face, tail wagging.

She straightens, frowning at Will still in bed, still watching her looking utterly confused. “Come on, I have Christmas shopping to do in the morning. Howard ate the milk bones I was saving for his stockings. Mischievous doggie.” She grins in a baby voice and then frowns. “Move it, William.”

He makes an effort, half hearted at best, but still an effort, but it’s not fast enough for her. The room drops away suddenly, all at once, and he’s seated in the ACN bullpen at the desk Reese had occupied those few long hours ago.

Kendra, Tamara, and Gary are huddled around a nearby desk, sorting through a couple of boxes, carelessly throwing some items back into the boxes and triumphantly holding out others. It’s a greedy tussle for whatever’s in the boxes, but organized, each one drawing something out in turn, gloating for a moment, than shoving the item hastily into a pocket or a bag.

“I bet I could make a killing selling these on Ebay.” Tamara is the first to speak loud enough for him to hear. Will squints, mentally trying to force her to move to see what she’s holding. Normally, he wouldn’t be interested in something this trivial, but this is the future, his future, and he wants to glean whatever information he can.

He stands, steadying himself, before he moves around the desk, stepping closer. The corners of a pair of silver frames sticks up from a box mostly filled with books. Another holds a collection of office supplies, black pens, highlighters, legal pads. There’s a photo of MacKenzie, badly crinkled, jammed forgotten into the corner of one of the boxes. He had cut it out of one of the internal PR photos that had been circulating around the office during a long ago December, a smiling Mac in a stunning black dress and white gloves, strings of pearls at her neck.

He reaches for it angrily, knowing without being told that it’s his photo: these are his boxes, his things. Why isn’t he here? Where is he? His fingers close around the scrap of paper and the boxes fade away.

Behind him Taylor tsks, Howard’s stomach gurgles.

He's standing at the back of a church, facing the entrance, his back toward the alter, his face stinging from the wind blowing in through the half open doors.

The place is mostly empty, he can tell from the sound, but there's a crowd outside, and MacKenzie. She's standing behind the door opposite him, her back to the outside world, weeping.

Will wants to punch whatever idiot it is that made her cry, but looking around he only sees Jim, standing beside her, arm coming up to wrap around her shoulder. He watches them for a moment trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. He had expected a wedding, some sort of winter wonderland suited to Mac’s particular form of whimsy, but she’s wearing a slender black suit, not wide billowing skirts and the decorations are wrong, overly perfumed and subdued.

It hits him suddenly, the mementos in the box, the tears, the suit. He’d been expecting a wedding, but he’s shown up to a funeral. He knows without looking he’ll find his own face staring at him from beside the alter, the same even expression that has peered out at him from the walls of the bullpen for the last decade.

He turns, keeping his eyes down, level with the crowd. He recognizes most of them, staffers, producers, a couple anchors, mostly former coworkers, mostly from other networks. He doesn’t pause too long to consider the implications.

Instead he turns to Taylor, who surprisingly has enough sense to look grim, hugging Howard to her chest. It’s an awkward gesture given the size of the dog, but he doesn’t seem to mind, beady black eyes fixed vacantly on Will.

“Are we done?” He coughs out as levelly as he can and then tries again.

MacKenzie’s still weeping, the sound wrapped tight around his heart. Even the sound of his sister’s crying, terrified, had never left him feeling so raw. He could change that, had changed that, but this was inevitable and he hated it.

“Just one more stop.”

For a moment he thinks they’ve merely moved outside, but a second glance tells him they’ve left the large overly grand church behind. They’re still a church here, but it’s small, quiet and country like. Howard raises his leg and waters one of the gravestones. Will rolls his eyes.

Someone here is crying too, but it’s more sedate: sniffles and half whispered words. It’s Maggie. She’s kneeling, brushing snow from a headstone, flowers clutched in her free hand, a tow headed child, a split image of Elliot’s youngest, clutching her sleeve.

Will’s about to bring his hand down on the closest chunk of rock when it morphs into his pillow and his ringing phone. The phone flies through the air then skitters across the floor coming to rest by the window.

Taylor’s gone. They’re all gone. His head aches vaguely as the radio pronounces, at a more reasonable volume, that today is the last shopping day before Christmas.

Bah humbug he thinks to himself and then smiles. The last shopping day before Christmas. He had missed the parties the night before. He had missed all those other Christmases. He still missed them, but he hadn’t missed today.

He's not the kind of person who does particularly well when his flaws are pointed out to him, yet here he is, every fuck up from the last decade laid bare, and there's a hopeful feeling creeping up on him.

He had fucked up, that much was undeniable, but those other years, the ones Taylor had shown him, their triumphs and mistakes hadn't happened yet.

He calls Neal, his number buried deep in the memory of his now dented phone.

"The biggest one." He repeats, laughing suddenly at the absurdity of it all. "Buy the biggest fucking TV in the place and throw something in for yourself."

He hangs up to the sound of Neal's sputtered thanks. 

*

It takes him longer than he would like to make it across town in the holiday traffic, but he tips the cabbie double and heads into the AWM building whistling all the while.

He orders half a forest worth of carbon offsets for Reese, flights to DC, Washington, Colorado, and small towns he's never heard of. He orders books and writes rent checks. He calls Neal back and asks him for Jim's number. He calls Elliot, holding his breath, words rushing out when his wife picks up. He hadn't stopped to think that maybe Jim wouldn't be there.

“Where’s MacKenzie?” The words haven’t stopped, rushing out to swallow Jim’s confused hello.

“She’s with her parents. Is everything all right, Will? Did something happen?”

“Yes something happened.” Will grouses, silently calculating how long it would take him to cross the Atlantic until he realizes Jim is still speaking.

“Mac wanted to go skating again at Rockefeller Center before they met us here for dessert.”

“She’s here?”

“Yeah.” Jim sounds confused again, taken aback by the pleading edge Will’s voice had taken on.

“Where is she?”

“She’s probably still in bed. It’s five am. Her parents got in late last night because of the weather.”

Will hangs up before Jim can finish. Mac’s apartment isn’t far. It’s too far to walk in this weather, the cab ride intolerably long, but he survives somehow, slamming the yellow door shut and bounding up the sidewalk.

He attaches himself to a grocery laden couple and manages to make it into MacKenzie's building before he realizes he's going to need more than a ring and a bunch of formerly empty promises.

It's too late now to back out; he's here, nervous, excited, and terrified.

"I'm looking for MacKenzie." He says to the woman who answers the door. Her mother, he registers belatedly. She has the same slight accent and the same sense of style. Her vaguely bewildered expression matching Mac’s when she appears.

"Will." There's no emotion behind the word, no warm note of familiarity. "Jim called. Is everything all right?"

She's concerned, but cautious in a way he's not used to her being. He nods, fumbling in his pocket before reaching to grab both of her hands. She leans back a bit but she doesn’t pull away. The crease between her eyebrows deepen.

“I fucked up.” He lets the words sit for a moment as he tries to gather his thoughts. “I have no right to be here asking you this, but I need you. You own me; I’ve spent the last decade trying to come to terms with this, and I can’t do it anymore, without you. MacKenzie, please. Will you?” He takes a breath and squeezes her hands, reassuring her as well as himself, the blank look on her face, edging toward a smile. “Will you marry me?”

The ring’s still in his pocket. He looks down briefly, trying to pull it free, only to fine himself wrapped in her embrace, her lips against his cheek, her lips against his.

It’s magical, soul consuming, the feeling of her in his arms. Thought of the ring slips from his mind, as he pulls her closer, holds her tighter, kisses her deeper. Her nails scrape the nape of his neck, her socked foot teases the side of his leg.

There’s murmuring from inside the apartment and she pulls away, twining her fingers in his. “You’re an idiot.” She breathes, not letting go. “A giant oaf. My dad’s making celebratory pancakes. Come inside?”

He nods, dumbly, finally managing to grab a hold of the ring box. Wondering vaguely how she had known, how long she had waited. “We’ll talk about this later.”

He holds the velvet box out to her and she snatches it, pulling him into the apartment, the door banging shut behind them.

“Later,” she agrees, but she’s wearing the right by the time the first pancakes slide onto the platter on the breakfast bar. 

He watches her twist the silver band trading flavored syrups and stories of past Christmases, follies and memories of happier times. He slips his eyes shut, holding tight to the scene laid out before him, to the feeling of wonder and joy. He has no idea what had gotten into him, but he’s never been more thankful for moments of temporary insanity. He’s never been more thankful.


End file.
